Pervert In Stone Age: Breaking Cavewomen with Modern Kinks Chapter 442: Megan Draws the Gun

I continued to knead Camilla’s rounded, heavy posterior in slow, possessive circles, my fingers sinking deep into the yielding flesh beneath her red fabric. I massaged the lingering, stinging handprints I had inflicted earlier, effectively re-marking my territory.

With every firm press of my palms, her ample cheeks bounced, causing her hips to thrust forward instinctively. A series of short, wanton whimpers escaped her lips that she struggled in vain to suppress.

"Mas... hmm... aah... hold on..." she croaked, her voice fragile with a blend of desperation and protest. Her thick thighs rubbed together frantically while fresh, hot moisture coursed down her inner legs in glistening streaks.

The dress had been bunched up high, leaving her bare sex fully exposed; her swollen labia shimmered, and her clit protruded as if yearning for further torment.

I let out a low, dark, fulfilled chuckle, leaning closer to nibble on her earlobe. "Hold on? You think you have the right to ask for a pause when your pussy is leaking like a broken pipe for your Master? No, slave. You spread. You moan. You accept whatever I choose to give you."

Before she could offer a rebuttal, a voice erupted from the dark woods—sharp, irate, and imbued with the commanding tone of someone accustomed to holding a failing campsite together.

"THAT IS ENOUGH, YOU SCOUNDREL!"

Megan bolted from behind the fir trees, firearm drawn and locked into a sturdy two-handed stance, the barrel leveled directly at my sternum. Her official uniform was disheveled; the shirt was partially unbuttoned due to the sweltering heat and her frantic pace, exposing a black lace bra beneath. Her nipples were hard and dark against the material, as if she were wrestling with her own unwanted arousal.

Her chest heaved rapidly—a mixture of wrath and a deeper, hotter emotion reddened her face. She kept her thighs clenched tightly together, as if the spectacle of Camilla’s degradation had ignited a dormant urge she was loath to acknowledge.

Drake emerged by her side, his expensive suit coat torn and soiled. His face was a mask of cold, simmering fury, and his luxury watch shimmered mockingly on his wrist, a relic of a world long gone. His gaze remained fixed on Camilla—on her marked backside, her moist thighs, and her shamed, flushed expression—and he bit his jaw closed with enough force to make the muscles strain.

Camilla went ice-cold against me, her physique rigid as if she had just been struck by lightning. Her eyes flew wide open, hit by the sudden shock of the situation.

In that brief heartbeat, she realized: Drake had seen everything. He had witnessed her moaning like a common harlot while I pinched her breasts through the thin cloth. He saw the vivid red welts on her rear and observed her glistening sex and grinding hips as if she simply couldn't get enough.

Her face burned with deep, mortified shame, causing her knees to wobble under the weight of her humiliation. She fumbling to pull her dress down with trembling fingers, but the scene was complete.

"Drake...?" she breathed, her voice a tiny, horrified tremor, her accent becoming more pronounced with her mounting panic. "You... you saw...?"

I let my hands drop from her body with a slow, theatrical deliberateness, turning toward the intruders with an expression of performative, feigned shock. My eyebrows arched, my mouth hung slightly agape, and my eyes widened as if I were utterly oblivious to their presence until that very moment.

"Officer Megan..." I stated with a calm, reasonable tone, as if we were discussing the weather. "What are you doing? Leveling a weapon at me? After all the conversations we shared back at our camp?"

Megan’s grip tightened on the piece, her knuckles turning bone-white, the barrel remaining steady despite the shaking in her posture.

"Scoundrel... that is enough," she spat, her voice dripping with venom as she moved forward with militant steps. "Camilla—come here. Right now. You don't have to do another thing. You don't need to debase yourself for this piece of trash. Drop the act. We are taking what we need and leaving."

Drake gave a sharp, angry nod, his eyes locked on Camilla while his voice strained with a mixture of rage and desperate pleading.

"Wife... come to me," he commanded, his tone low, gesturing urgently with one hand. "I am sorry. I forced you into this. Please, I do not blame you. You performed your duty well. We confirmed his location. That is all that matters. Now, get away from him before he touches you further."

Camilla hesitated for a brief flicker of time, her frantic eyes darting between me, Drake, and Megan as if ensnared in a pit of her own making. Then, with a ragged breath, she pulled away from me.

Her heels sank into the loose earth as she moved toward them, stumbling with every step as if the journey itself were an act of betrayal. Her dress remained hiked up above her hips, revealing her flushed, marked rear and her obscenely glistening sex.

She came to a halt beside them, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with her allies, her chin tucked against her chest. Her cheeks burned hotter than the setting sun, and her arms were held tightly against her torso to conceal the shame dampening her skin.

I folded my arms across my chest, adopting a stance of mounting indignation, allowing my voice to roughen with appropriate outrage.

"Officer Megan... are you attempting to pillage my stores?" I pressed, injecting a sharp, accusatory bite into my words. "I never anticipated this from you. Not after everything. I proposed a just exchange. Sustenance. Shelter. Security. And this is how you repay me? Aiming a firearm at me like a common thief?"

Megan’s lip curled, her features contorting into a mask of feral disgust.

"I am not trying to loot your supplies," she retorted, her voice rising while her barrel remained unmoved.

"I simply want you to stop them. That is all. But you—you have crossed the line, Dexter. Capturing people as slaves? Compelling them to grovel and plead? Forcing them to spread their legs and cry out like animals just to remain alive? You aren't a savior. You are a vile predator. Nothing more than a monster who thrives on breaking people."

I shifted my gaze to Camilla, allowing a thick, tense silence to linger, portraying an expression of profound, wounded disappointment.

"Camilla..." I stated softly, as if the sting of her betrayal cut deeper than the weapon itself. "So, this was your strategy all along. You offered yourself as my slave... merely to uncover the location of my base. To guide them straight to my supplies."

Camilla lifted her chin, her embarrassment hardening into a cold, defiant stubbornness, though her voice still betrayed her with a tremble.

"Hmph..." she scoffed, crossing her arms over her heaving breasts, a gesture that only served to make the material strain further. "Honestly... why else would I ever submit myself to be your slave? Do you honestly believe I enjoyed it? Do you think I took pleasure in moaning for you like a cheap whore while my own husband stood watching?"